


sleep off the pain and try again

by jumbled_sentiment



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Healthy Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Living Together, M/M, Protective Connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 21:30:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18396725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumbled_sentiment/pseuds/jumbled_sentiment
Summary: “What can I do?” Connor asked.“I’m not sure.”





	sleep off the pain and try again

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a lyric from Yellow House – Better Views 
> 
> I promise this does have a happy ending, just keep reading!

Oliver was pissed. He was the kind of angry that defied logic because it had no cause and no cure. The truth was, Oliver Hampton was absolutely fuming for absolutely no reason. The second he’d seen the light of day he’d wished he hadn’t. His attempts at bullying himself into feeling better had been about as productive as saying to a brick wall, "Please, just let me through,” and he’d succeeded only in making himself somehow more bad-tempered than before. 

Worse than the rage, Oliver was sad. He felt as if somebody had strapped a boulder across his back and said, "This is yours now, you must carry it with you at all times and never let it go.” In a way, that’s exactly what had happened. On two separate occasions, he’d snuck into the bathroom at work and cried. Each time, he’d felt momentary relief before his foul mood returned with renewed vigour, washing over him like a particularly cruel wave that couldn’t wait to get started on its fair share of erosion. 

With the tearfulness came confusion, "Why am I feeling like this, is there something wrong with me?” and guilt, “I have a great life, why am I feeling sorry for myself?” The more answers he demanded, the more frustrated he became, a vicious cycle which showed no signs of stopping. He was trapped under a jumbled pile of sentiment and emotion. It blocked every ray of light from his world and reaped every ounce of joy from his veins. On a disturbing sort of rollercoaster, he alternated between overwhelmed and numb. His head was swarming with chaos until suddenly, he dipped into a silence that was far from comforting. The only constant was a persistent ache that was both there and not there. It commanded his full attention without actually saying a word. 

Most unbearable was the isolation. His life was overflowing with love; Oliver had a wonderful family, caring friends and a boyfriend who adored him yet, all of that had been wiped out with one bad day. His parents were immensely supportive but, he was a grown man. He couldn’t go running to them every time he felt sad. His friends, he knew, would listen to anything he had to say but, there was nothing to listen to. Nothing had caused this. Connor Walsh, the most caring man Oliver had ever met, would do anything in his power to help take this pain away. But he was too heavily burdened as it was and Oliver couldn’t add to that, especially when he knew that there was nothing Connor could do to help him. 

He could deal with this alone. Ride the wave of emotions crashing over him and bide his time until this, whatever it was, went away. _You can deal with this alone._ He drummed the words into himself again and again as he walked home, until it became his personal mantra. 

_You can deal with this alone._

_You can deal with this alone._

_You can deal with this alone._

The second he stepped over the threshold, Oliver knew he’d been wrong. The whirlpool of insanity that had threatened to drown him since he woke had ultimately succeeded in drawing him into its depths. Surrendering to the tide, he leant against the door as it closed behind him, put his hands over his face and, for the third time that day, cried. 

At that moment, Connor’s voice started to drift along the hallway. “You’re home late. I was thinking we –” 

He stopped. 

“Oli, what? What's happened?” 

“Nothing,” Oliver choked. “Just a bad day.” 

It had been two weeks since Connor had moved himself into Oliver’s apartment. Neither of them had been disillusioned about domestic life; they had no misguided or overly optimistic expectations. They both knew it would be no different than every other aspect of their lives. Messy, unpredictable and wildly flawed. Oliver Hampton would be the first to attest that Connor Walsh was not perfect, and Connor would be inclined to say the same about Oliver. They’d already seen each other's not-so-pretty bits. Oliver had witnessed Connor’s trauma on the night of the bonfire and Connor had been there for the aftermath of Oliver’s HIV diagnosis. They'd long since moved past the stage of pretending to be perfect in front of each other. 

In fact, they’d never actually been at that stage. Three weeks into their relationship, Oliver had dumped Connor for his infidelity and it was fair to say that, after that, Oliver had expected nothing less than imperfection. They’d reconciled but, in the course of their relationship they’d had their fair share of blips. More than their fair share, but they’d yet to experience one as a couple that lived together. So, when Oliver had collapsed against his own front door in a fit of anguish, a small part of Connor has thought, _about time._ He was far from happy to see his boyfriend in distress but, he had been starting to wonder if he was in the calm before the storm. 

“What can I do?” Connor asked. 

“I’m not sure.” 

Connor moved closer to Oliver and placed his hands around his wrists, making no attempt to pull his hands away from his face. If Oliver wanted to hide, that was his choice. His touch was just a silent reminder that he was here, and that he would do anything to make this better. 

“There’s a new episode recorded of that terrible show you love,” he murmured. “We could watch that? I promise I won’t talk all the way through it.” 

Oliver shook his head. “I’m not in the mood, it’ll just ruin it.” 

“Okay, how about a bath? That's always relaxing?” Connor suggested. 

Oliver shook his head again. 

“I could cook? Or we can get takeout?” Connor asked, desperate now. 

"Not hungry,” Oliver sighed, before finally removing his head from his hands. “Sorry I’m being weird. I’m just, I don’t know,” he sighed again. “I’ll be fine soon.” 

Connor wasn’t offended. The number of times he’d been stuck in this exact headspace, confused and frustrated and bitterly angry, he was just glad that Oliver wasn’t attempting to mask his pain. From experience, Connor knew that pretending only made it worse. 

“Don’t apologise, Oli,” he said softly. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” 

“I’m sure.” 

He wanted to refuse. _There must be something._ But he knew Oliver and he trusted his judgement. There was nothing Connor could do. 

“Okay,” he said. 

For some, that would have been the end of it. With their boyfriendly duties fulfilled, they could now go on with their night as planned. For some, it was that simple. 

For Connor and Oliver, it was even simpler. When one hurts, the other hurts right along with them. Maybe it takes some of the pain away, maybe it lets them know they’re not alone or maybe, it does nothing. Maybe they simply don’t have a choice. So, as Oliver meandered aimlessly around the apartment, trying to pass enough time so he could go to bed and wake up in a better mood, Connor did the same. Neither of them ate a proper meal, both just snacking when they were hungry or bored. Nameless shows littered their screen for most of the night and Oliver ate copious amounts of Greek style natural yoghurt while Connor tried his best not to ridicule him for his choice of comfort food. Once, Oliver moped away into the bathroom to cry. While he was gone, Connor saw that he had typed the word 'fuck' onto a word document what must have been at least two hundred times. Whatever works. 

When the time finally came, Oliver dragged himself into the bathroom to get ready for bed. With sloth like spirit, he brushed his teeth and pulled on his pyjamas, before hauling himself into the bedroom and wearily sliding under the covers. If there was one thing Oliver hated, it was going to bed sad. He was a problem solver. He liked to confront things head on, not leave them to simmer overnight. But tonight, he didn’t have a choice. As skilled as he was, even Oliver couldn’t solve a problem that wasn’t there. Because there was no reason for his sadness, there was also no solution. All he could do was hope that when morning came, the cloud would have lifted. That night, Oliver’s last conscious thought was, "Please, let me feel better tomorrow.” 

As it was, he couldn’t really tell. His brain was muffled by sleep and in the quiet calm of their bedroom, everything always seemed more okay. The real test would be when he, once again, attempted to navigate the real world. 

Had he managed to sleep it off, or was he in just as much pain as the night before? 

That was the question rattling around his head as he got ready for work, lazy and lethargic and it took him almost twenty minutes longer than it should have done. By the time he was showered and dressed, there was no time for his usual toast or cereal. At one point, Connor spoke to him and he definitely responded but he wasn't quite sure of what he said. Everything was a little blurry, as if his brain was wrapped in clingfilm, blocking all the signals and mixing up his responses. He wasn't hearing things properly or feeling anything the way that he was supposed to. But, then again, he didn't feel the all-consuming pain he felt yesterday. Maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe he was just worried that he was going to be sad today because he was sad yesterday but actually, yesterday was just a bad day and if he stopped thinking about it and just acted normally then there really wouldn’t be anything wrong with him. 

But then again, if there was nothing wrong with him, why would he be thinking so damn much about absolutely nothing? 

His questions were answered at around three pm. He found himself wondering what to cook for dinner and grinned almost ear to ear. If he were still lost in his maze of misery, that thought wouldn’t even have crossed his mind. He realised then that he was actually famished, probably because he hadn't eaten anything properly in, well, he couldn't remember how long. 

When he caught himself hoping that it had stopped raining by the time he had to walk home, he nearly cried with relief. Yesterday, if somebody had drenched him with a fire hose, he probably wouldn’t have even bothered looking up to see who’d done it. Today, he was worried about getting caught in a little bit of drizzle. Oh, to care about such mundane things as rain. Only when you cared about life, could you care about rain. 

Oliver wasn’t, at that moment, elated, ecstatic, joyful or even happy. But he wasn’t sad. He was okay. He could think, he could breathe. He didn’t feel like crying when he dropped his pen or if the computer took a minute too long to load. He wasn’t sure exactly why it had happened, or what had actually happened, but it didn’t matter. He could breathe again, and boy oh boy did he breathe. 

When it was time, he took the same route home as he had not twenty-four hours earlier, but nothing about the journey was the same. There was no mantra, no words or questions circling around his head like a hamster wheel being hammered by a rodent on steroids. There was only him and his sweet anticipation for home. He was as light as a bowling ball in a vacuum. His synapses were back to full speed, the murky waters clogging his brain filtered and cleaned and the sluggish, stagnant trance he found himself in, gone. He was tired, sure. He'd been at work all day; he should have been tired. But, he wasn't the kind of tired that makes essential tasks like eating and drinking require an excessive energy output. He was the kind of tired that makes him want to curl up on his couch and have Connor spoon him until one or both of them gives into their aching muscles and they retire to their bedroom. 

When he finally did get home, it was to an empty apartment. He wasn't sure where Connor was but he didn't mind. Yesterday, if he’d come home to an empty apartment, he surely would have cracked even deeper and more harshly than he had done. Although he’d been too far inside his own head to notice it, he knew then that Connor’s presence had kept the barest part of him together instead of hollowed out and broken like the rest. His existence was a promise, a reminder of what was waiting for him when he emerged from the tunnel of darkness he’d somehow plunged himself into. 

Pulling his phone out, he shot Connor a quick text before wrenching off his uniform and diving straight into the most comfortable clothes he could find. Automatically, he set about making dinner and it wasn’t long before he heard the tell-tale sound of a key turning in a lock and his sweaty, out of breath boyfriend collapsed into the living room, gasping and wheezing for air. Immediately, Connor knew that whatever had plagued Oliver yesterday was gone, no longer following him around like a bully in a playground with its taunts and jokes and jibes. 

“I hope whatever you’re making... has a lot of calories,” he panted. 

Oliver laughed. The sound gave Connor a greater rush of endorphins than the two-mile run he’d just endured. 

Connor planted a gentle kiss on Oliver’s cheek before bounding away into the bathroom to shower off his sweat and slip into his own snug, slouchy clothes. There’s an unspoken agreement between them that, with each other, they prioritise warmth and cosiness over any semblance of maintaining appearance or aesthetic. 

“How was your day?” Connor asked as they sat down to eat. 

“Usual,” Oliver shrugged. “You?” 

“Usual.” 

They lapsed into silence, having said all that needs saying. Unlike yesterday, it wasn't a silence that could be heard, it was bred from genuine comfort and ease. It filled the room with a quiet and calm and placid energy with absolutely no weight to it. Both men were tired and worn out, both from today and the day before, and all they wanted to accomplish that night was to spend time in each other’s company. They alternated between chewing and swallowing and sharing soft, sweet smiles that, before he met Oliver, would have made Connor’s eyes roll to the back of his head and permanently fix there. 

When they’d finished, they quickly cleaned the dishes, with Oliver washing and Connor drying. Then, they moved to the couch and, in no time at all, found themselves bundled under a multitude of blankets and cushions. Well, Oliver found himself bundled under a multitude of blankets and cushions that Connor had, as usual, mountained on top of them for no apparent reason. They’ve done this so many times before but, this time, Oliver took a moment to be just that little bit more grateful. It was a carbon copy of a million moments they’ve had before but, it felt different. He felt as if he’d found something he’d lost and he was determined not to take it for granted, not when he knew how easy it was for none of this to matter. 

Before long, the moment was over. “I’m watching my show, and you’re still under obligation to be silent,” he said. 

Connor grinned. “I never said I'd be silent. I said I wouldn’t talk _all_ the way through it.” 

Oliver tried to glare but he just didn’t have it in him. “You dick,” he laughed. “You better not.” 

But, for once, he didn’t. With his head resting on Oliver’s shoulder, he smiled dreamily at the screen, not actually seeing what was on it, and didn’t utter a single word. He knew it was over simply when he felt a nudge on his shoulder, giving him permission to speak again. 

“Thank you,” Oliver whispered. He was grateful, they both knew, for more than Connor allowing him to watch television in peace. 

“You don’t have to thank me.” 

“Okay.” 

That was how they stayed for the rest of the night, curled up together under an obscene number of blankets with no real purpose or objective other than to be with each other. When the small hand ticked over to eleven, they slowly gathered themselves up and made their way to bed. Entwined limbs sprawled every which way in familiar harmony, and they lay there in the blurred lines between the waking world and unconsciousness. 

“I love you,” Connor whispered. 

“M’too,” came the reply, mumbled and slurred from sleep. 

That night, Oliver’s last conscious thought was “thank God I have you.”

**Author's Note:**

> A few weeks ago, I dipped into a low mood for no reason and it ended up lasting almost a week. At some point, the idea for this fic just popped into my head but I only had a vague idea about what I wanted it to be. I went through a ton of my sad and angry ramblings and managed to piece together a pretty accurate description of how I was feeling, which I then twisted to fit my perception of this character and relationship. This was essentially therapy for me and was really satisfying to write. I like the idea that I managed to create something, no matter how small, from what I was feeling. It’s almost as if that whole week was worth it because now, I have a piece of writing that I love. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading this, it means the absolute world <3


End file.
